I have said it before, or rather, I have expressed my admiration for Kundera in my previous reviews of his books, that coming across his books at the ‘National Books Foundation’ bookstore in Islamabad was not a coincidence, nor was my instant attraction towards those two books of his any superficial happenstance – it all happened for a reason.
Kundera fascinated me before I even knew him, and continues to fascinate me with the same nobility and beguiling nature now as I finish reading his fourth novel. Even more promising looks his works of non-fiction now, especially ‘The Art of the Novel’ as I find myself in the transitory phase of writing something than previously imagining of writing a book someday. Pamuk’s ‘The Naïve and Sentimental Novelists’ was a similar surprise for me, where his non-fiction writing matched the quality of his fictional works, if not surpassed it.
However, if not a coincidence then what? I am not naïve enough to sit and wait for some meaning to materialize from my infatuating connection with Kundera, which I assume most of his readers have with him. I know well enough to forge meanings where it becomes so essential – and with Kundera, it is essential for me to learn something from the master, and most importantly, impart some of those learnings into my own writings.
Identity is a rather short novel, which is usually called a novella, from Kundera, where he speculates and stunts, interrogates and fascinates, astonishes and intrigues, both the readers and the topic, which is our identities themselves, and how evasively fleeting they can sometimes be.
Following Chantal and Jean-Marc, a couple living in an apartment in Paris, Kundera ponders upon the topic of identity as the couple suffers through the boredom, envy, angst, and exhaustion of a relationship. Chantal, a divorcee who didn’t love his former husband and found him unsuitable after a few rough years of marriage, finds Jean-Marc, a very simple and settled person although not rich at all, and falls in love with him.
They come to Paris to start their new lives together, yet upon arriving, where the novel starts, Chantal finds out that men do not look at her anymore. This infuriates Marc, since he’s crazily in love with Chantal and she has his gaze all over her all the time; yet despite his passionate love, he also knows that Chantal doesn’t require his gaze, which she’s confident that she had won a long time ago, but that of others, for ‘the gaze of others’ still has the potential to arouse her, make her feel good about herself.
Then one day, Chantal receives a letter from an unknown admirer, and she starts dressing up again, becomes self-conscious once more, and starts feeling the gazes of men on her again. But who is that secret admirer? And where would those letters lead to?
It is with rather such stupendous plots that Kundera finds a mean of saying some of the most significant things a man could say. His thinking, his prose have the ingenious lure to them that act of reading them becomes enchanting. One cannot forget his books, writes New Statesman, because they have an essential energy to them, a difference.
One swipe done through the notes of
this book on my phone and I will some of the most interesting, beguiling, fascinating,
and captivating ideas to talk about, hours on end – such is Kundera’s books and
the unfoundably arresting and infatuating ideas therein.
Ratings: 5/5 ***** March 26, 2021_